Imaginaries
by kittykatloren
Summary: Too many times, Micaiah wanders off without telling anyone where she is headed, when she will return, or what she plans to do. FE10 Radiant Dawn; Sothe/Micaiah oneshot.


**A/N:** My first piece on Sothe and Micaiah, for I finished _Radiant Dawn_ at last! I've never played _Path of Radiance_, but still, the characters in Dawn completely grabbed me. Especially these two. So here's my piece on them. Take the title for whatever you want it to mean; I know it's not a real word. I hope you enjoy, and as always, every review is much appreciated.

**Words:** 1296  
**Characters:** Sothe, Micaiah  
**Time:** Before the end of Micaiah's chapters in _Radiant Dawn_  
**Genre**: Romance

**Disclaimer:** Anything you recognize belongs to Nintendo, not me.

* * *

Too many times, Micaiah wanders off without telling anyone where she is headed, when she will return, or what she plans to do. Sothe runs his hand anxiously through his short hair, glancing in vain around the camp. He knows she isn't there; she hasn't been there all morning. Yet he can't stop himself from hoping that he will see a glimmer of silver as clear as the moon emerging from behind a tent. With the day growing ever older, she is in ever more danger.

Sothe grasps the hilt of his dagger and slips out of the Liberation Army's campsite. No one sees him disappear – he has become far too practiced at vanishing in the past few months. He can never surpass Micaiah at such a skill, though; even her renown as the Priestess of Dawn does not stop her from occasionally escaping Sothe's careful eye and determined presence. An uncomfortable pang strikes him when he thinks that she might run on purpose, tired of his constant company.

Sothe wanders in the quiet, padded wood for some time before he finds any indication of where she could be. He catches sight of a yellow-and-orange feather on the ground, like a tiny strip of fire, exactly the same color of little Yune's plumage. Quickly Sothe picks it up and twirls it between his fingers, as if holding the feather would guide him to its owner. He continues on between the trees. The thickly fallen bed of leaves doesn't rustle or crackle as he steps; rather, they soften the sound of his lithe pace until he can hardly even hear himself, unless he accidently collides with a dead branch or a bush of thistles. Quite a few times, he has to destroy any semblance of secrecy and push carelessly through a painful patch of brambles.

But finally, he finds what he knew he eventually would. He heads toward a clear meltwater brook far upstream of where it borders their campsite. Water trickles gracefully over pebbles and stones, sounding almost like the rush of wind or the tinkle of chimes when a few of the smooth stones become dislodged in the current. Sothe steps forward and dips his fingers lightly into the stream. The icy water shocks and numbs his rough fingertips, but he barely feels it, too distracted by the glitters reflecting off the water's rippling surface. Somehow, it reminds him of the tears that he has occasionally seen glistening on Micaiah's cheeks. The barely-discernable lights that gleam warmly in her amber eyes always vanish if she cries.

Shaking away his thoughts as rapidly as he had shaken away the cold water drops, Sothe rises to his feet and glances across his side of the creekbed, very conscious of the lack of tree cover at the water's edge. But then, miraculously, his gaze falls upon a young woman, kneeling beside the river, barely a few yards from where he stands.

She is sitting so still and so quiet that it's no wonder that Sothe missed her when he stepped out of the woods. Her hand is outstretched in front of her, resting over something on the ground. Her head is bent so much that the tips of her silver hair touch the water. The pale white color matches so well with the rushing water that it almost looks as if she herself is about to melt away into the stream. Micaiah doesn't even twitch when Sothe approaches her. He places his hand on her shoulder and kneels beside her.

"Micaiah? What are you doing out here?"

Swiftly he brushes a few strands of hair off of her face. Her eyes are closed and her mouth is open, and it is only then that Sothe realizes how heavily she is breathing and how slumped her usually straight and strong shoulders are. Glancing at her hand, he sees that is it gently touching a plain, dusky bird with a broken wing. Micaiah's fingers begin to move, tracing tiny patterns, and a warm, bright glow emits from her palm. Sothe barely has time to blink before the little bird is flapping away with twinkling chirps and songs. Micaiah lets out a long, deep breath, and her eyes open wearily; she glances over at Sothe.

"Good afternoon, Sothe," she sighs, with a small attempt at a smile. But her arms suddenly tremble, and the warm expression falls into the face he only sees when she is wholly exhausted, where she bites her lip and narrows her pained gaze. The little fire-colored bird, Yune, gives a sad whistle from Micaiah's shoulder.

"You exhausted yourself just by healing a bird?" Sothe asks, just as Micaiah falls into him. He adjusts himself so he can hold her, one hand on her soft hair, the other tight around her waist. The side of her face lies on his chest, and he wonders distantly if she has the energy to feel how powerfully his heart is beating.

"I've been… tired, lately…" she mumbles. One of her hands curls into a tiny first below Sothe's shoulder. "So tired… but I couldn't just let a creature suffer. It's… not right."

_She is too kind for her own good,_ Sothe realizes, holding her closer in his arms. _How can I keep her safe, when she is like a child in her naïve righteousness?_ She is indeed curled like a child against Sothe's body as her eyelids flutter shut and her harried breaths slow to a steadier speed. All too vividly, he can remember when _he_ was the child, curled safe in Micaiah's arms… in a time so long ago that it may have taken place in a completely different world. And now, everything has changed.

"Sometimes… I wish I could… heal everything," says Micaiah, her voice barely a whisper of a breath. "Lives, hearts… souls… the past. I wish… I could heal our past, Sothe. It's all – all the imaginaries, sometimes… that I wish I could heal."

"Yeah," says Sothe, not quite sure what she means, though the memory of being without her for three long, painful years suddenly surfaces in his mind. "Yeah, Micaiah. The imaginaries."

"All of life… could have been different, right? If certain things hadn't happened…"

Unconsciously, Sothe begins to weave a hand through her shining hair, letting it slide like soft silk through his fingers. She mumbles something else that he can't quite hear, and he feels small fingers wrap around his free hand; he can tell by instinct and experience that it is the hand that bears the mark of the Branded. The pulse under her gloved palm is warm and powerful, the laguz blood rushing side by side with the beorc blood in her veins. Gently Sothe squeezes her hand. "What'd you say? Just now?" he asks, hoping she hasn't drifted off into sleep already.

"Don't ever leave again, Sothe… don't… leave me. Please… do you promise?"

He can tell that now, she is closer to sleep than before, finally closer to the rest she so desperately needs. Her eyelashes haven't fluttered off her cheeks and her breathing deepens and slows. Without deciding to do so, Sothe kisses her forehead; her skin is warm under his lips. "I will always be with you," he murmurs, praying that he doesn't wake her. "I'll always protect you, Micaiah."

He doesn't know if she hears him that time. He has said those same words so many times that it almost doesn't matter. But all the same, Sothe knows that means it more and more every time, already so far past the point where he would give his life for her that it seems impossible for him to possibly promise harder. And still, he does. Every time, he promises harder, determined to keep her safe no matter the cost.


End file.
